


A Real Man

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Trans Male Character, only friendship here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock forgets a doctor's appointment while caught up in a case and has to deal with the consequences. John isn't as oblivious as Sherlock thinks.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 140





	A Real Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to put a trigger warning here in case anyone is feeling vulnerable- there's pretty intense dysphoria ahead plus discussion of periods.
> 
> Feedback of any kind is very welcome!

Sherlock glanced at his bedroom window, where morning light was just beginning to curl around the edges of the curtain. He groaned, pulling his knees up to his chest, letting his eyes fall closed. The crook of his left arm, covered in track marks (all at least a year old now) itched.

He didn’t hate his body. Not constantly. Not anymore. Yet days like today almost made him forget that he wasn’t that fourteen year old kid, crying because he’d bound his chest tightly with ace bandages but that didn’t change his body and he could never be whole.

Never be whole. 

Sherlock knew the case had gone on for too long. He’d ignored everything else but the mystery (ears turning up around London with no apparent clues as to their ownership) and it had been fascinating. But it had lasted five days, and Sherlock had forgotten sleep, food, and as he’d realised upon waking up to a sticky wetness between his thighs, his doctor’s appointment.

_ Stupid. _

It had been six years since he’d made a mistake like this, and four before that since he’d had to deal with regular menses. The horror of his body’s betrayal had almost made him physically sick, and he was dreading having to move. At least under the duvet he couldn’t see the evidence.

Waves of loathing rolled over him. All his nerve endings alighted at once with dysphoria, as though the twin scars on his chest and the slight curve of his hips and the damn emptiness between his legs were sending out radio signals that could be detected by the whole world; “ _ Sherlock Holmes is not a  _ real  _ man.” _

Freak. That’s what Donovan and Anderson called him. He knew they didn’t mean it, not like that, but it was hard to drown out that word. Because times like this, when his  _ failings  _ caught up with him, he knew it was true.

He hadn’t heard John come downstairs, too caught up in the downward spiral of his own thoughts, Jim Moriarty taunting him from his mind palace; “ _ You’re me, except you’re not, are you Sherly? You’re a  _ girl.  _ You’re  _ always  _ going to be a girl.”  _ And that manic laugh. 

John knocked on his door, pushing it ajar just as Sherlock slammed the basement door on Jim. It took him a moment to resurface, pushing back into the (hateful, ugly) reality of the morning, fear replacing shock as he took in John standing next to his bed.

His brain juddered to a halt as he took in John’s confused and worried expression and followed his line of sight downwards to wear blood was starting to seep through the bedclothes.  _ Shit.  _

“Sherlock… it’s ten ‘o’ clock and you hadn’t got up and I couldn’t hear anything so I thought I’d…” John started, before Sherlock interrupted.

“Please go,” he muttered, closing his eyes and hoping his friend would listen.

“You’re hurt,” John stated. “I didn’t realise, should’ve checked you properly before you hit the sack last night, just—let me take a look. There’s a lot of blood.”

Sherlock snorted. John was obviously feeling guilty in a doctor-ish kind of way for not noticing. There was nothing for it; John wasn’t going to leave without an explanation. And as much as he hated to admit it, his friend could see through any untruths about Sherlock’s health. He really wasn’t an idiot, not compared to most people.

“I… John, I’m menstruating,” he said, squashing the words into his pillow and pulling the duvet up tighter around his chin.

“You’re  _ what _ ?” John asked.

Sherlock groaned again. “Menstruating, John. Shedding the lining of my uterus? You are a doctor, I would’ve thought you would be familiar with the term,” he snarked.

John huffed a long breath through his nose, shaking his head. “If this is some ploy to stop me treating something I swear to God I will kill you,” he muttered, then louder, “doesn’t the testosterone take care of that?”

The detective sat up in bed suddenly, dropping the duvet before he remembered his bare chest and pulled it back up again. “What do you mean? John?”

But his friend was still on his previous train of thought. “You git, you forgot to get the prescription filled, didn’t you? You-” Sherlock cut him off. “You  _ know _ ? How? Did Mycroft tell you? That bastard!”

John was looking at him incredulously. “You lounge around the flat in nothing but a sheet most days, mate! A sheet that barely covers anything! I  _ am  _ a doctor, as you are so fond of pointing out.”

He quieted, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t know I knew? Sherlock- how could you not know?”

Swiping angrily at the moisture that had gathered in his eyes without permission, Sherlock shrugged, seeming to close in on himself even more. “Didn’t want you to know,” he mumbled. “Didn’t want you to leave.”

John grabbed the other man’s shoulders, unsure whether to hug him or shake him for his idiocy, and settling on the hugging. Sherlock’s body tensed, his fear warring with his desire for comfort, before he seemed to collapse into John, falling into his lap in a mess of long limbs and sheets. The held back emotions washed over him and he let out a bitten off sob into John’s shoulder as it all came out.

“I don’t  _ want  _ this and I shouldn’t have to deal with it John, it’s so  _ wrong _ and I just want to… be. A man, I mean. A real one. Not some sort of  _ freak, _ ” the last word tasting bitter on his tongue as his stomach twisted again, reminding him all too clearly of the situation at hand.

John felt him wince and squeezed him tightly before pulling back. “Look at me,” he begged, “Sherlock, you’re… it’s just not true. Of course you’re a man. I’ve never seen you as anything else and…”

“Yeah? Look at the  _ bed,  _ John! Look at me and tell me this isn’t disgusting. That I’m not disgusting. I don’t-” he trailed off as another cramp wracked his abdomen. John sighed.

“I’m going to run to Tesco’s, can I draw you a bath?” He nodded carefully, looking up at his friend. Could John really be okay with this? 

“Sherlock- do you have a preference? Of, um, sanitary products?” John blushed slightly, fidgeting with his hands. Sherlock’s cheeks reddened in response. “Pads. Please. But John, I can take care of myself, you don’t have to do this.”

John smiled, small but honest. “I know you can. But you don’t always have to. That’s kind of what having a friend means.”

Sherlock lay back in the bed, allowing his mind to drift from the painful wrongness of his body. He heard the taps rushing to fill the tub, and imagined sinking down into the bubbles, allowing the water to hide him.  _ Yes.  _ The image was second only to the wonder of John Watson, who just now was taking the seventeen steps to the door, hailing a cab, and going to Tesco’s. To buy his male flatmate sanitary products. 

Sherlock knew there were at least five horrid days ahead of him. But he knew he wouldn’t have to go through it alone, and right now, that was everything.


End file.
